‘Problem with that Sam is if his wife is to be believed, he hasn’t got any friends.’
‘I know. Bloody hell. Let’s just keep this between me and you at the minute. You check whether he was on leave.’
‘Yeah, will do.’
Sam gazed out of the passenger window, the passing houses a blur. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible above the hot air rushing out of the vents.
‘The other worrying thing is she said he had trouble getting an erection. He needed the games to help.’
‘Why’s that worrying?’
‘Erectile dysfunction, according to studies, often occurs with the ‘Power Reassurance’ rapist.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Sitting with Dave Johnson, Sam and Ed listened as he brought them up to speed with what had happened since they left for their meeting with the CPS.
All the victims had been spoken to again and there wasn’t anything distinctive about the odour of the rapist, other than he smelled a little sweaty, and without putting words in mouths, none had picked up the smell of curry or spices. They all described him as having a local accent, none of them recognised his voice, and they were all 100% certain that their attacker wasn’t a previous boyfriend or anyone they knew socially. Kelly believed the weapon was something like a big penknife.
None of them had any unusual callers in the weeks leading up to the attacks. During his conversations with them, they now remembered that the rapist asked what they liked to do in their spare time, as well as asking if they enjoyed the sex.
Using the parameters Sam had set down, Dave had reduced the number of sex offenders on the Gull Estate from 13 to four and two officers were conducting background checks into them.
It had been confirmed that it was Emily Sharpe’s partial fingerprint on the cricket ball.
‘We’ve got a photograph of Terry Crowther and the checks on him are moving along nicely. He looks promising,’ Dave said.
‘Why?’ Sam asked.
Dave handed her the Officer’s Report.
‘Interesting. Where did we get the photo from?’ Sam asked, passing the report to Ed.
‘Confirmed as Romeo’s. It was on the wall. It shows him with two other workers.’
‘Dave, make some copies of the photo and show it to all our victims. I want to make sure that they’re all talking about the same guy.’
‘Okay,’ Dave replied, dragging the word out.
Sam guessed he was questioning this decision. ‘Dave, there’s no identification issues here. I want to establish if the girls are talking about the same delivery man. That’s not going to compromise any future evidence of identification. If Crowther’s our man, we’re not showing the victims a photograph of a suspect who they could pick out on an identity parade. There won’t be a parade. He’s wearing a mask. There’s no problem showing them a photograph. I want to make damn sure the person delivering their pizzas is Crowther.’
‘And finally,’ Dave said, trying to ignore the rebuke, ‘Duncan Todd’s been detained overnight in hospital for observations with a head injury he received during an assault this afternoon in the Jolly Roger pub.’
‘And he is?’ Ed asked.
‘The ex-boyfriend of Danielle Banks. He didn’t want to make a complaint, but he told uniform that his two assailants had been sent by her father, Brian Banks.’
‘THE Brian Banks?’ Ed asked, eyebrows raised.
‘The one and only,’ Dave replied.
‘Enlighten me,’ Sam said.
‘Brian Banks,’ Ed told her, ‘is a successful businessman who made his money in the scrap metal business years ago. Still runs his scrap business, although he got into property developing in the late 80s. Now owns over 200 terraced houses. No criminal convictions, but certainly believed to have been involved in drug trafficking over the years. He also owns a big farm on the edge of town and drives numerous high-powered cars. Been married to Donna for best part of 30 years.’
Ed inhaled slowly before continuing.
‘I didn’t realise he was Danielle’s father. He has the normal contacts you’d expect for someone of his background. There are people who’d do anything for a fee or as a favour to him.’
‘Would he have Duncan beaten up if he thought he was responsible for raping his daughter?’ Sam ventured.
Ed feigned shock before his mouth twisted into a sneer.
‘He would have people seriously beaten up if they passed wind in front of his wife. My view? If he really thought Duncan had raped his daughter, he would’ve had him killed. It would have been slow and it would have been unpleasant.’
Ed pulled his chair closer to the desk, Sam and Dave waiting for the next instalment.
‘People have had their fingers chopped off. Fingers forced around a door frame, with the door part open, and then some heavy kicks the door shut. That would be the type of punishment if they stole from him. The mind boggles at what would happen if he found out who raped his daughter. His cock would probably be cut off, gypsy-style punishment.’
‘Then we need to find the rapist before he does,’ Sam said calmly.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ed answered with a look in eyes. ‘Brian Banks would inflict more pain on him than any court of law could ever do.’
Sam held his eyes for a second, trying to read his expression.
‘I know that you don’t mean that.’
‘Maybe,’ Ed said. ‘But part of me wouldn’t mind Brian Banks or his kind getting to the bastard first. Before his barrister starts telling the court what a sad childhood he had, how he was very remorseful, and how it wasn’t his fault.’
Barristers. Even in the dictionary you find them between barracuda and bastard.
‘Alright, back to the job in hand,’ Sam said. ‘Instead of talking vigilantism. Dave, this is a long shot, but can you check the systems for any reports of stolen knickers. I’m just thinking of what Danielle said to Bev Summers. About her thong being stolen. Go back two weeks before the first attack.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Dave asked.
‘If he’s stealing knickers when he’s not committing rape, which is not unheard of, we may just find a witness who saw him stealing some. It’s just a thought. Certainly a long shot, but worth a look.’
‘Okay. Will do,’ Dave said. He got up and walked out of the office.
Sam had a long soak in a deep, hot bath when she got home and was now curled up on a large white leather settee, the collar of her fluffy pink dressing gown turned up. She could do with an early night and the decision had been made for her when she discovered her two trusted police friends had other arrangements; Bev Summers was going food shopping and Louise Smith was taking her widowed mother out for a meal.
The supermarket ready meal – salmon en croute with rice – had served its purpose. Cooking was a joy when Tristram was alive but since he had gone, she just couldn’t summon up the motivation. If it took longer to cook than it did to eat, she wasn’t interested. The kitchen clock, in need of a new battery, had stopped working weeks ago but there was no need to use it to co-ordinate a meal. The ping of the microwave was all she needed. Perhaps she should start cooking again after all the revelations about horse meat in supermarket food.
A natural history documentary on the TV provided nothing more than background noise. The table lamp cast enough light for her to read the latest copy of ‘Yachting Monthly’. She no longer sailed but couldn’t resist reading the magazines. That said, on the small occasional table was a paperback ‘Left for Dead’. She hadn’t got past the opening chapter of this true account of the 1979 Fastnet yacht race disaster. Some things were too raw.
She was so absorbed in the magazine that she jumped when the dedicated SIO phone rang. She recognised the number, but couldn’t place it, and there was no list of contacts programmed into the phone. Was it Ed’s? Why would he ring this phone?
‘Sam Parker.’
Heavy breathing.
Fuck! Is this him? Is the cheeky fucker ri
nging me?
Sitting bolt upright, the phone shaking in her hand, she took a deep breath, and muted the TV.
‘Sam Parker,’ she said again, fighting to keep her voice calm.
The breathing was getting louder, more rapid. Bloody hell - is he doing himself?
Her mind was racing but she chose her words carefully, her voice quiet, inquisitive.
‘What are you imagining us doing?’
The use of ‘us’ was crucial. If this was their man, she was trying to reinforce the fantasy of a relationship, of her being a willing participant. She wanted him to speak. Would she recognise his voice? Was it Crowther? Jason?
‘Why won’t you speak to me? Tell me what you’re doing?’
Was that a muffled laugh, or was it her imagination?
Resisting the urge to tell him to go fuck himself, she ended the call.
Kicking off her mule slippers, she sprinted, hit the landing light switch and took the stairs two at a time, only the tips of her toes coming into contact with the carpet. Without turning on any other lights she ran into the front and rear bedrooms, pulled the curtains open and glanced out of the windows.
Where are you, you twisted fuck? Are you watching?
Stumbling as she ran downstairs, she grabbed the handrail. She slid along the kitchen floor in her plain grey woollen socks, grabbed the back door handle and rattled it up and down. Locked. Like a child in a school obstacle race, she turned and sprinted towards the front door. Her legs were burning as she grabbed the handle. Locked. She collapsed on the settee and tried to convince herself that the breathlessness and increased heart rate were caused by the sudden physical activity. The reality was different. The cause was psychological not physical. Did he know where she lived?
Deep breaths got her heart rate under control. She was his bloody puppet. He was pulling her strings.
‘I’ll get you, arsehole, and we’ll see who’s pulling the fucking strings then.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
That call was exhilarating. Sitting in the dark, the driver’s seat reclined, his trousers around his ankles, he had seen the landing lights go on and envisaged her checking all the doors and windows. Had he frightened her? Would she guess he was outside? He had seen the curtains upstairs being flung open but she was gone in a second. Total control. Talking to a policewoman. Him! Who would have imagined that? And not just any policewoman. He’d been talking to the one trying to catch him. ‘Cosmic,’ as ‘Only Fools’ Rodney would have said.
It was a pity that she had ended the call before he had finished. He would finish at home, in his own time, thinking of her, imagining her playing with him. He leaned his head back. What had she said? ‘Imagine what we are doing.’
Christ, she wants it! He took the newspaper off the passenger seat, stared at her photograph and decided there and then to finish what he had started.
Afterwards, he closed his eyes, his whole body tingling, and decided that on Sunday he would take the press cuttings about the latest attack and put them with the others in the teapot buried in his allotment. He would cut out the photo of Sam Parker and keep it at home. It might not be as good as a driving licence but it would do for now; the press photo and the sound of her voice speaking to him would turn him on again when he got home.
Scrolling through the contacts menu of the mobile, he selected a girl and called her. The phone went straight on to her voicemail.
‘Hi, it’s Danielle. Sorry I can’t take your call, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you.’
Perhaps she had no signal, or maybe she couldn’t get to the phone. He might try again later in the week. For now he would satisfy himself with the memory of the phone call to DCI Parker.
Wednesday
Sam was in the office at 7.30am. A sea fret hovered around Seaton St George and the morning had a damp, cold feel to it.
Ed was in the HOLMES room, standing by the tall beige kettle which had just started to boil, the steam mingling with the heat from the radiators.
‘Timed to perfection,’ Ed said. ‘You must have smelled it.’
Sam smiled, but Ed noticed that she seemed pre-occupied.
With a brief nod of the head he said, ‘You alright?’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘Can I have a quick word in my office?’
Ed followed her, closing the door behind him, knowing on instinct that something was wrong. He repeated his question.
‘He rang. Last night. The rapist. He called the dedicated phone.’
‘What? Jesus! Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. It felt kind of spooky, but I’m okay, really.’
Her voice was slow and deliberate and her brown eyes, always capable of transmitting messages to those who knew her well enough to read them, were fixed downwards. As she lowered herself into her chair, Ed sat down opposite.
‘What did he say?’
‘He never spoke. I could hear him breathing, heavy breathing. I think he may have been masturbating.’
‘Dirty bastard. We’ll get a panic alarm put in your house today. Fuckin’ arsehole!’
‘No need to fuss, Ed.’
‘I’m not fussing. But we’re not taking any chances. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. We’ve put them in other girls’ houses, so we’re definitely putting one in yours.’
‘Okay, okay.’
There was little point in arguing. Ed wouldn’t let her go home until one was installed. It was nice, she thought, that he was so caring. A true gentleman was Ed. She looked at him and smiled with an expression that a ditched daughter might give to her father, one of gratitude, one that expressed thanks for understanding.
Ed left her sitting in her office, returning in minutes with two mugs of tea, the dash of milk barely altering the tea’s colour.
‘Thanks,’ Sam said , taking the mug. ‘Proper builders’ tea.’
‘Put hairs on your chest.’
Sam thought she could probably stand a teaspoon inside it. Not that she would want to. Teaspoons in CID offices were usually only washed when they reached the point of needing disinfectant.
‘Let’s crack on,’ she said, her hands around the steaming mug.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine. He wants to think he’s in charge, that he is pulling the strings. Let him. Soon enough we’ll be pulling his strings.’
‘I can’t wait to wipe the smile of his face… I still cannot get my head around the fact that the fucker rang you. Cheeky twat.’
Ed was still shaking his head as he read the contents of last night’s briefing.
Sam glanced at the wall clock as the SIO mobile rang.
‘Is it him again?’
She shook her head. ‘Different number.’
‘Sam Parker.’
A slight pause was followed by a female voice, a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.
‘He raped me too.’
Sam’s hands moved at the speed of an experienced casino croupier, pushing the papers around her desk, searching for a pen. She knocked over her mug, and instinctively pushed her chair backwards as a tsunami of tea covered all before it, before the laws of physics kicked in and the tea resembled an incoming tide creeping across the sand.
Mouthing ‘thanks’, she took a pen out of Ed’s large outstretched hand and searched for a dry scrap of paper before scribbling…
ANOTHER VICTIM KEEP EVERYONE OUT OF OFFICE
Speaking only slightly louder than the victim, she said: ‘My name is Sam. Can you tell me your name?’
‘Amber. Amber Dalton,’ the woman whispered.
‘Are you alone, Amber?’
‘Yes,’ came the response, followed by a series of short, rapid, nasal breaths.
‘Would you like me to come and see you?’
A short pause. ‘Yes. Yes please.’
‘When did this happen, Amber?’
‘Three weeks ago. Friday.’
‘Where do you live, Amber?’ Sam asked, keep
ing reassurance and calm in her tone. ‘I’ll be there in 10 minutes.’
Sam was wriggling into her coat before the call even ended. Putting the phone in her pocket, she pulled open the door. Ed was waiting. ‘Let’s go. I’ll explain in the car.’
Within minutes they were in the underground police garage, getting into Ed’s car, the passenger foot-well strewn with discarded protein bar wrappers.
‘It’s like a mobile skip in here,’ Sam said, shaking her head.
‘It’s just a few wrappers. Mind you, I’ll need to get rid of them before Sue gets in here. She’ll have my life if she sees them and thinks I’ve had people in here when it looks like a shit-tip.’
Amber Dalton hadn’t reported the rape for three weeks and Sam had no idea of her mental state. Getting to her was a priority. The investigation was important but the welfare of this new victim was paramount. Sam was acutely aware that she might be the first person Amber had told. If that was the case, Amber had dealt with this alone for three long weeks.
‘Another chance for us to stare into the pit of human depravity,’ Sam said as she closed the passenger door.
‘Where to?’
‘Bamburgh Way. The attack was three weeks ago. A Friday. I don’t know if she means early hours of Friday, or early hours of Saturday. Probably the Saturday.’
‘If that’s the case, it’s the same night Crowther was stopped in Bamburgh Way at half four. Friday night to her. Saturday morning to us.’
‘Exactly. I’ll get Dave Johnson to have the uniform cops who checked him spoken to again. We need to know what he was wearing, why he said he was out at that time, the whole works.’
Sam looked at Ed as he drove and pondered the latest piece of information.
‘Ed, if Amber was attacked in the early hours, that was the same night Emily Sharpe had her window broken. Emily didn’t have her window repaired and yet she wasn’t attacked. Amber was his first choice.’
Be My Girl Page 13